


X Marks the Spot

by Yahtzee



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Alternate Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 20:55:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yahtzee/pseuds/Yahtzee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when George discovers that Remus is one of THE Marauders who made the map?</p>
            </blockquote>





	X Marks the Spot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jain/gifts).



> Thanks to Tehomet and Counteragent for the betas!

When the next generation asks me what I did in the great war against Voldemort, George thought, I shall have an answer ready for them. I shall be able to tell them that I ran a joke shop.

Weasley's Wizard Wheezes had opened in Diagon Alley five years ago, almost to the day. To the best of George's calculations, his vocation had gone from being the most fun imaginable to being absolutely ridiculous approximately four years and eleven months ago. What use were Canary Creams and fake wands when Voldemort remained on the loose, killing people?

His self-appointed triviality had bothered George deeply for a long time, but never so much as it did tonight. He'd been to other funerals – too many, during the past five years – but none so terrible as this. None that hit so close to home.

Madame Rosmerta whispered a few kind words to Fred; George could only hear his twin's response, the generic "Thank you so much" that was serving them all well tonight. Fred's arm was wrapped around Angelina's shoulders. Angelina's hands were on her enormous belly, currently home to what promised to be the first Weasley in 200 years who wouldn't have red hair.

Across the room, other well-wishers were surrounding Ron. Could they not see how desperately Ron wanted to be left alone with his grief? Perhaps only a brother could see it. But no – there was Percy, elbowing his way close to pay lip service to the idea of family duty.

Then again, at least Percy put his hand to constructive work. Even testing cauldron thickness and licking boots was more worthwhile than a creating a Ton-Tongue Toffee.

"That's a rare talent you've got," Fred said. "Dragging down the mood of a funeral."

"I'll be depressed if I like," George replied. "Though maybe 'like' is the wrong word, I admit."

"At least they had the wedding." Angelina's gaze was fixed on the newest portrait on the wall, from which Hermione – aglow with laughter and joy and life – pushed her windswept wedding veil from her face and prepared to throw her bouquet. The Hermione in the portrait never threw it. "She and Ron had that much, at least."

George and Fred had been expressly forbidden from having anything to do with the preparation of the wedding cake, for fear of guests who might inflate, levitate or grow antlers. But they had fashioned the figures for the top of the cake, a tiny bride and groom who bickered as much as Ron and Hermione did in their prime. Ron thought it was hysterical; Hermione had at least pretended to.

I could've given her something nice for her wedding, George thought. Played it straight for once. But not me. Oh, no. Couldn't let an opportunity for a laugh go by.

The guests filed past another portrait of Hermione set up in the main room, taken a year or two back, from which she self-consciously smoothed her bushy hair. Candles were lit on either side, and flowers circled the frame. It was as close as they could get to a proper funeral; the curse Voldemort had used left no body behind.

**

The next few weeks were more ordinary than George would've thought possible, and because of that much harder. Many of them were staying at the Burrow for a while, to keep Ron company. Apparently the flat he'd shared with Hermione in London brought up too many painful memories now. But the memories haunted the Burrow too.

("But you could _share_ the garden with the gnomes!" Hermione had been standing in the doorway, her hair pulled away from her face in a way that reminded George how pretty she was, really. He'd looked down from her to the squirming gnome in his hand and, for the first and only time in his life, felt a bit sorry for it.)

George was in his old room too, though it felt powerfully strange without Fred there. (Angelina had insisted that, while at the Burrow, they would sleep in Percy's former room because it held fewer booby-traps than anyplace else in the house.) The other bed looked larger without Fred in it. Cleaner, too, though that was beside the point. George had spent twenty-four years believing he wouldn't mind getting some space away from Fred, probably even more time than that if you counted the womb, but now that Fred and Angelina had their own home, George found he missed his brother terribly. Sure, they worked together at the shop, but there was something unnatural about only being with Fred eight hours a day.

They went about their daily tasks silently, which made an unwelcome change. Mum's corrections were rare and half-hearted; Fleur's rich French cooking, meant to tempt Ron's appetite, mostly went untouched. The spirit of their family had been established long before Hermione ever left them – but it seemed at times as though she'd taken it with her when she left.

George thought he even missed the fighting until one night almost a month after Hermione's death. As he was charming the dinner cups and plates into the sink, he heard voices raised in the garden – Ginny's and Harry's. This struck him as unusual; despite their tendencies to shout at other people, Ginny and Harry were normally rather gentle with one another. Then again, anyone could have a spat. And after a month like this, tempers were bound to be on edge.

But as a saucer whirled through the hallway, it nearly hit Ginny as she ran back inside, with tears streaming down her face. "Gin – you all right?" George called. But she kept on, taking the stairs two at a time as her crying turned to wails.

Outside, a sound like a small clap of thunder revealed that someone had Apparated – Harry, no doubt. When Ron came downstairs a few minutes later, George asked what those two were at odds about. It helped to have something ordinary to say.

"Harry's broken it off with Ginny, you know."

"What?" George stared. "You're mad, that's what you are."

It felt like the wrong thing to say, as soon as he'd said it, but Ron was apparently too weary to notice. "He's blaming himself. Says You-Know-Who went after Hermione because she was his friend, and he doesn't want that happening to Ginny, too."

"That's a load of tripe. You-Know-Who can't scare us off our friends."

Ron shrugged. "He can scare our friends off us."

"But hurting Ginny like that – with everything else that's going on –"

"Skip it, will you?" Ron's face flushed as red as his freckles. "Harry's being a git, yeah. But he doesn't know what to do anymore. He's not the only one."

They each sat down on the couch, beneath the clock. Extra hands had been added for the wives of the family – first Fleur, then Angelina, and then Hermione. Nobody had gotten around to removing Hermione's hand yet – it remained, forever pointing toward "Mortal Peril."

Quietly, Ron said, "Sometimes I wish I could get away from everything, you know? Be a Muggle for a day, or use a Time Turner to go back before You-Know-Who."

"Lot of turns, that would be." George half-smiled. "What I wouldn't give for a Marauders' Map to the Universe, with escape routes laid out everywhere. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, Prongs – where are you now?"

He meant it as a bit of a joke, something to lighten the mood. But Ron stared at him. "Don't you know?"

"Know what?"

Ron was actually smiling a bit; George was heartened to see his little brother's mood lift, even for just a few minutes. "Who they were. The Marauders, I mean."

George sat upright, milking this distraction for all it was worth. Besides – it was the MARAUDERS. "Get away. You know who they are? The geniuses who turned Hogwarts into our personal playground? And you haven't told me so I can pay tribute to these honored, hallowed souls?"

"There's really only one left to pay tribute to," Ron said. "They were Harry's father and his best pals. Harry's dad, James, he was Prongs. Sirius Black was Padfoot."

The scrawny, overanxious, overeager master of Grimmauld Place – that was Padfoot? George hadn't paid much attention to the man during the few months he'd known him. Sirius' death hit George in a way it never had before, and he tried to remember those bent, tattooed hands, tried to imagine them inking the shapes of footprints.

"That worthless Peter Pettigrew was Wormtail. Don't imagine you'll be wanting to pay any tribute to him."

"You're lying. There's no way." A servant of Voldemort, one of the makers of the Map?

Ron shook his head. "True. But there is one left for you to talk to – Moony is none other than former professor Remus J. Lupin."

"I KNEW I liked him!"

For the first time in a month, Ron laughed.

**

By the time they'd finally gone to their rooms for the night, Ron's temporary cheer had evaporated. George could hear him, tossing and turning in his bed, the creaky mattress springs proclaiming every move. His little brother missed Hermione. He'd always miss Hermione.

Sometimes it seemed as though everything that really mattered in the world had been stolen away, either by Voldemort or by time itself.

Maybe Harry wasn't being a git after all. Maybe he was just facing facts.

George sighed and put out the lamp. As he settled back onto his pillow, he saw some notes he'd written to himself years ago in glow-in-the-dark ink: an early version of the formula for Canary Creams. That one had turned people into herons, which while remarkable somehow lacked a certain comic touch.

Canary Creams. I've spent my lifetime figuring out which birds are funniest. Well, put me down for an O.B.E.

He wanted a way out of this trivial life he'd chosen for himself – but how could he just walk up to the Order and declare himself now? George knew that the skills the Order most needed were stealth, steadiness and iron will; even at his most charitable moment of self-reflection, he knew he was rather short in all three categories. You just couldn't switch from being a prankster to a super-spy –

But wait. You could. Because Remus Lupin – the one and only Moony himself – had done it.

The next steps on George's path were so clear that he could almost see them, outlined in ink on parchment.

**

Though the reports of the weekend attacks had been all over the Prophet, Weasley's Wizard Wheezes had booming business on Monday. George didn't have a moment to say anything to Fred besides, "Bring up another dozen packets of Hair-Curler Caramels, will you?" Just as well. He decided he liked keeping this particular plan to himself.

As the sun went down and the day drew to a close, George said, "Make a deal with you, if you like."

"Let me hear all the particulars." Fred meant this very literally; they made contracts with no one before looking for every loophole and catch, least of all each other.

"Simple, this one. You close up tonight, and I'll do the morning on my own. Let you sleep in a bit, if you like."

"Sounds too easy."

"Not everything's a game, Fred." Maybe George's voice was too sharp at that last, because his twin stepped back, an unfamiliar confusion on his face. More carefully, he added, "I'd just like to get on tonight, if it's all the same to you."

"Ah, I've got it now. New man in your life?"

The one way in which the twins were not identical had never been a secret between them, though Mum and Dad were still in the dark. "Not at present. You'll be the first to get the bulletin if and when."

And then – before Fred could ask any more questions – George tossed him a few Everswirl Suckers and loped out the door.

The air was a little cooler than it had been last week, and it wasn't just his mood telling him so. Kids would be heading back to Hogwarts soon. Generally, that spelled the end of their busy season, but George told himself he didn't care. Maybe Weasley's Wizard Wheezes would soon be a thing of the past – or his involvement in it, anyway. Maybe Lee Jordan might think of buying him out. Surely a weekend show on the wizarding radio didn't take up all his days –

Within a quarter-mile, he reached Ollivanders – which still had the same name, and same sign, despite the fact that its original proprietor had passed away (along with another half-dozen innocent victims) in the terrible Death Eater raids spring before last. It had another owner and wand-maker now, who had acquired a good reputation for himself in a short time.

Many of the proprietor's former students said it was natural; anyone so skilled in Defense Against the Dark Arts would obviously know quite a bit about spells and counterspells, and therefore about wands. George suspected many customers also thought their wands might possess extra, unimaginable powers if they were crafted by a werewolf.

Remus Lupin looked up from some ancient tome he had balanced on his knees and smiled. "Thank goodness. I was expecting a barrage of Hogwarts first-years. What they do to the woodwork in here with their test runs, you wouldn't believe."

"Oh, I'd believe it." George pointed to a particularly deep gash in a railing.

Lupin raised an eyebrow. "You?"

"Fred. Same difference, really. We can switch wands without any shift in power, you know."

He meant it simply as a sort of icebreaker, but it seemed to fascinate Lupin. "Really? Remarkable. I wonder if all twins can? Might be worth studying – but I doubt you've come in here for academic talk, Mr. Weasley."

George could've cringed at the reminder of his reputation for utter uselessness. "I was actually. In a manner of speaking." Lupin looked astonished, albeit in a polite way. "Well, about Hogwarts, anyway. My time there."

"If you want hints about your final exam, you're a few years too late."

Enough beating around the bush – bit stupid to feel bashful about it in the first place. This wasn't a professor he was talking to. This was MOONY. "Ron told me you were one of the four makers of the Marauders' Map."

No surprise, no denial, just a sad, familiar smile. "So it was you and Fred who found it. I ought to have guessed long ago. Talk about coals to Newcastle."

"Professor – Mr. Lupin – I don't guess I could call you –"

"I'd rather you didn't." Lupin's voice was thin and distant all of a sudden. But he hastened to add, "The nickname 'Moony' belongs to a particular time in my life, and to the people I was close to there. But you're a grown man now, and we're friends, so I think 'Remus' is entirely appropriate."

"Remus." Calling him that didn't feel as odd as George would've thought. "All right, then. I guess I just wanted to say – that Map – Remus, that Map is a thing of beauty. A masterwork, really. Not only was it the single greatest help in mischief-making ever devised –"

"Thank you."

"—but the magic you four put into that – it's amazing! There's Aurors who couldn't do that level of work. Seriously, it's brilliant."

"I can't claim that any single one of us gave the Map its genius," Remus said quietly. His gaze was faraway now, lost somewhere in the swirling dust motes illuminated by the day's last light. "It was the four of us, all together. Some things really are the more than the sum of their parts."

"The Map, you mean."

"That too, though I meant friendships, most of all."

Something about the way he said it made George quite sure that Ron had been right about the thing George had believed least of all. "Wormtail – that was Peter Pettigrew?"

"I tend to think of Wormtail as someone very different than Peter Pettigrew. Which is my own weakness, of course. We carry our worst and best selves with us all the time, whether or not our friends are ever able to see."

Now, that was deep talk. George wasn't entirely sure what it meant, exactly, but all the same, he knew depth when he heard it. "But you had to be pretty powerful wizards, each of you as well as all of you, or else you couldn't have made the Map to start with."

Remus shrugged as he took a sip from the teacup sitting on the counter. "I suppose that's true."

"So you – you went from being the kind of boys who'd spend that kind of time and energy and power on a map to being –"

George meant to follow that up by saying "Aurors" or "fighters," or really just "adults," but to his surprise, Remus' face turned bitter and ugly. "Being what? We took four different paths, you know. Traitor, outcast, martyr and – God, I suppose poor Sirius had to be all three at once, and himself besides."

Remus' voice sounded different when he said the name "Sirius."

"I just meant, you went from using your abilities to do what you enjoyed most to using them to do – to do what mattered most. And that's what I want to do."

"What?" To judge by Remus' astonishment, George might as well have announced his intention to join the Weird Sisters as a tambourine player. "Are you talking about leaving the joke shop?"

At last, somebody understood. "That's it. Exactly."

"But I thought you loved working at the joke shop. Every time I walk past, you and Fred are always laughing."

"What's laughing to do with anything? When You-Know-Who is still out there, still taking away everything that matters?"

"Ah." Remus hesitated, then set aside his teacup and lifted the hinged panel in the countertop that let him walk out to George's side. "You don't think the joke shop matters. Not really."

"I know it doesn't."

"Then you've got it all wrong." Remus clasped George's shoulder in one hand. He'd never realized just how tall Remus was, really; he'd towered over them as a teacher, but George had grown a solid foot since those days and still hadn't quite caught up. "Your joke shop helps make people happy, George. You must know how rare a commodity happiness is these days."

"I – I guess."

"I'm going to tell you what you did after Hermione's funeral, and you tell me if I'm right or wrong: You did something to make Ron laugh."

George squinted at him. "If you're a Legilimens, you're cheating."

"I'm not. Anybody who knows you could've guessed."

"That I'd have to make a joke out of that, too?"

"Oh, don't you see, George? You did something for your brother. You drew him out of his grief – only for a moment, perhaps, but you still reminded him that life had some goodness in it. Something worth going on for, even when Hermione was lost. I fought by their sides before and during that battle, and I stood by him in the hours after we knew she'd been killed. But I wasn't able to sustain him – to remind him that life is still worth living. That gift is yours. It has its place in this war, and don't ever let anyone tell you different."

Humbled, and reminded of Hermione so strongly that he felt wretchedly close to crying, George said, "It doesn't feel that way."

Remus sighed. "There are times during this war when nothing feels useful, nothing at all. You must keep your courage. We all must."

This would take some digesting. George suddenly felt quite awkward; coming here had been odd enough in the first place, really, without being told that he'd gotten everything all wrong. And yet – there was truth in what Remus had said.

His place was at the joke shop. George realized that and, for the first time in a long time, felt not shame but relief.

Remus' hand was still on his shoulder, but his attention had shifted from George – back to that same faraway place he'd traveled to a few moments before, when he'd been discussing the other Marauders. He looked sad. Tired, too.

There were times for making jokes, and times for playing it straight; every once in a great while, George could tell the difference. "Sirius Black – I wish I'd known him better. I wasn't very nice to him, I don't guess. He seemed so wild. But he had good reason – and he was PADFOOT."

Maybe he shouldn't have used the nickname? But it was all right, because Remus smiled. "He wasn't entirely himself, when you knew him. Or perhaps I should say he was too entirely himself. Most of the time, when he had an outlet for all that energy, and not so much to prove – Sirius was an extraordinary man."

Ah, George thought. He and Fred had had a running bet on Remus Lupin ever since fourth year: Poofter or not? George had said so; Fred had denied it, though they'd both admitted it was a close call. But the way Remus said Sirius' name made George quite sure he'd win that bet after all. Took one to know one.

"I'm sorry," George said, hoping Remus would understand.

Perhaps he did. Or perhaps he was just past caring. Remus simply patted George on the shoulder again. "Let's have no more of this nonsense about quitting the joke shop. I'm coming by for an Everswirl sometime – next week, perhaps -- and I'll expect to see you there."

"I'll save a five-speed for you," George said.

Remus had an awfully nice smile.

**

After much cajoling, Ron finally agreed to attend the Manchester Monarchs' game on Saturday. Fred and George shared a glance of pure triumph when Ron grabbed his yellow-and-blue pennant and walked out in the yard with them to Apparate. After school, Hermione had never quite worked up much enthusiasm for the professional games –

("Really, amateur sport is far more engaging," she'd insisted at the Weasley dinner table.)

\--so Ron wouldn't have too many memories of her in the stadium. And showing an interest in Quidditch again, however minimal – what could be more natural than that?

Normally Ginny would've come too, but nobody argued with her when she claimed to have a headache.

Not even Ron could root for the Chudley Cannons, not when they were playing the Monarchs. His loyalties had been divided ever since the Monarchs drafted the best Seeker to play the game in a century.

"Go, Harry, go!" Ron yelled, thrashing his pennant through the crisp autumn air. Harry didn't need the encouragement; his yellow robe was a streak of light through the stadium pursuing the snitch faster than the eye could see. Of course, Fred was being a right pig and monopolizing the Omnioculars. So George watched the crowd instead. To a person, their faces were alight with energy, either smiling or swearing depending on the team they favored. Flags in yellow and blue and orange quivered throughout the stands like so many butterflies.

These people – they know what we're up against, George thought. They know the stakes of the war. But they're here anyway, taking every chance they've got to be happy.

Harry's broom tilted upward, zooming into the sky at an absurdly steep angle – and then Fred hooted in pure glee. "Our boy's done it again!"

"Snitch! Snitch!" The crowd began to chant. Even Ron was grinning, and it was good to see.

After the match, they talked their way into the equipment room and found a sweaty, disheveled Harry still stripping off his vambraces. They'd done this countless times, and it had never been a big deal. Of course, what usually happened first was that Ginny ran into Harry's waiting arms. With nobody available for that job, everyone sort of stared at each other for a minute until Harry said, to Ron, "I didn't think you'd come."

"I wasn't sure you'd play," Ron admitted. "But – good to get out for a bit."

"Yeah."

Silence, until Fred said, "And brilliant catch there, at the end."

"I halfway fell off my broom. Believe me, that's the picture they'll run in the Prophet." Harry shook his head.

So that was how it was going to be – awkward small talk, preserving the friendship without ever delving into what was important, what haunted Harry even now. Are we always this stupid? George thought despairingly.

He blurted out, "I know why you broke up with Ginny, but honestly, Harry, you're being completely thick about it."

Harry drew himself up, and George hoped like hell he wouldn't start yelling. For a short fellow, Harry could muster up some serious volume. "It's for her protection. You know that."

"What, you've protected her now? You Know Who blows up another building every week, but you've just made sure Ginny will never be in one?"

Harry's cheeks flushed. "George – I don't –"

"Cut it out, will you, George?" Ron was brilliant red too, so much that his freckles almost seemed to have vanished. "We've got enough to be getting on with."

"That's my point, Ron." George stepped forward and thumped Harry in the chest with two fingers, to drive the message home. "We've got enough to be getting on with – so we don't have to invent heartbreak where we haven't already got it, do we? Like it or not, and I hope not, Ginny's in danger every single day. We all are, and it's not got a thing to do with you, Boy Who Lived. If it did, believe me, I'd drop you like a hot potato. You're fun, but you're not THAT much fun."

"George!" Fred looked shocked – but he also looked like he wanted to start laughing.

"You love her. She loves you. Don't screw it up, all right?" George tried to find the words he was looking for, and he found Remus' instead: "You must keep your courage."

It sounded so solemn, so unlike him, that Harry didn't quite seem to be able to make sense of it. George was beginning to feel remarkably stupid when Harry finally said, "You're right."

"Of course he is," Ron said. "You'd be daft to leave Ginny."

Fred nodded. "Absolutely daft. Buy the woman some flowers and chocolates and get back to the Burrow, would you? You have considerable groveling to do."

George rolled his eyes. "NOW you all speak up."

It was Harry who laughed first. "You've always been the morale officer, George."

Morale officer. Now that had a nice ring to it.

**

The next week passed surprisingly slowly, and it wasn't just the swarms of kids stocking their school trunks with treats and bribes that would have to last until the first Hogsmeade weekend. George thought it had more to do with waiting for Remus Lupin to come and claim his Everswirl Sucker.

On Monday, it was merely a matter of curiosity. Today? No, not today. George chose first one five-speed, then another with a bit more cherry flavor to it. In his opinion, those were always the best.

On Tuesday, it was a bit of a nuisance. Honestly, it got old, waiting and waiting for someone to show up in an afternoon. One block over – how much trouble could it be?

On Wednesday, George began to worry. Had he perhaps offended Remus? Maybe he shouldn't have called Sirius Padfoot, especially not considering that Sirius and Remus had apparently shared more than mapmaking skills.

On Thursday he was determined to walk the damned lollipop over there himself, but it was raining cats and dogs, and the hordes of students were particularly thick. Any attempt to dart out in the middle of the day would have brought swift and terrible retribution from Fred, not to mention Angelina, who was helping out at the register.

But late on Friday – with the flood of students down to a trickle and the rain more of a fine mist – the door swung open to reveal Remus Lupin, smiling as he walked toward the counter. His robes were still shabby, but George noticed that his shoes and his overcoat were both of a better make. Never before had he been so glad that the man's inheritance from Sirius Black allowed him to buy Ollivanders – it was nice to know that Remus was, well, looked after.

And when George realized that he cared about that, he realized a few other things as well, like what nice hands Remus had, really, and how he hadn't thought of him as Lupin once since their talk, and how worrying about age was really sort of a low, common thing to do anyway. "Been waiting for you," was all George said. It seemed inadequate, so he held up the Everswirl too.

"Ahh, my favorite flavor. How did you know?" Remus took it and tested the speeds, flicking it five times so that the swirls of color spun faster, and faster, and faster again. "Magnificently done."

"You've waited for it a week," George replied. "So I reckon you can wait for it a couple of hours longer."

"Pardon?"

George smiled. "Thought you might like to grab a firewhiskey. You and me, what do you say?"

"I – well – I suppose –"

"That's settled, then. Just let me tell Fred, will you?" George hurried into the back room before Remus could object and found Fred scurrying around, trying to catch a few Ice Mice that had escaped their boxes. "Remember that deal where you close up shop, and I open next day? Want to try that again?"

Fred turned from the tiny chittering treats on the floor, stared at his twin for a moment, then peered out into the shop. George couldn't see Remus himself from where he stood, but he could see the recognition in Fred's eyes. "I thought you said that when you had a new man in your life, I'd be the first to know."

"You are. I haven't even told him yet."

That won a laugh. "Go. Get on with you. If you haven't got a hangover and a stupid smile on your face tomorrow morning, don't even bother showing up."

"You're the boss. Half the boss, anyway." George hurried back into the shop, grabbing his Macintosh and umbrella with one hand while smoothly clasping Remus' arm in the other. Within a few steps, they were out in the damp, and he had to let go of Remus to open the umbrella up. Talk about a spell somebody ought to come up with – opening umbrellas without both hands, that would be magical –

("Honestly, even Muggles have umbrellas that open automatically," Hermione had said once, both outdone with him and amused. Remembering her like that – all at once, it was as if she were still there, walking along through the rain, and George found it comforting. Like she hadn't been left behind after all.)

"Ah – George –" Remus shifted from one muddy foot to the other. "This is – really, it's very kind, but –"

"It's not a kindness. It's an invitation. Last time, you had to give me a morale talk, you know? This time, we can talk about the Map."

Remus smiled, both as if he liked that idea and as if he didn't want to. "But – you understand – I don't want to seem rude, but if this is –"

George was in no mood for limits. He stepped a little closer, bringing Remus beneath the umbrella too. Mist fell all around them, clouding the rest of the world in gray softness, and Remus' face was closer to his than it had ever been before. Once again, it was Remus' words that came from George's mouth: "You must know how rare a commodity happiness is, these days."

"So we should take it where we can find it?" Perhaps Remus was trying to be cynical, but there was a different kind of light in his eyes.

George smiled back. "Let's put it this way – we shouldn't give up until we've found it."

When the next generation asks what I did in the great war against Voldemort, George thought, I shall have an answer for them. I kept my head, and I tried to help those around me. I never lost the ability to take a chance, and I always believed – always knew – there was something worth fighting for to the bitter end.

**

THE (unbitter) END


End file.
